Proprioception
by SquidWithRedInk
Summary: It is a known observation that the general population of spectators assume that those aware of their rebirth have it all figured out, and use past lessons learned in their previous lives to avoid danger, drama and repetition of mistakes. I am the living proof that said spectators are wrong on that note. Jefferson/OC
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE:**

The morning my life was taken, I was having an excellent day. I woke up before my alarm rang and found my dad cooking my favorite breakfast. Then my usual commute of thirty minutes became fifteen courtesy of the succession of green lights. School was even better; the history paper that I had slaved for more than a month returned to me with a big letter 'A' written at the top. Not only that, but my teacher also gave me a sincere compliment about my work. All I could do after she was done was contain my ego from inflating too much.

I remember thinking to myself on my way home that some primordial deity must have finally heard my prayers of blessing me with good fortune. The sudden positivity was overwhelming. I was basking in my small victories that it did not occur to me that anything could go wrong. Little did I know that my consistent streak of good luck was reaching its climax-that lady luck was leading me to _the_ grand event.

It was so obvious.

It should have been abundantly clear to me that _that_ day was a special day.

Thus, I did not notice it when a car swerved off the road and smacked right into me.

I did not see what it looked like (it was blue), nor did I hear the screeching of tires (it was loud). I only heard the driver blaring its horn and only saw the bumper heading towards me before the impact broke every bone in me and crushed every organ in my body.

(It was painful).

* * *

After that was nothing. There were no winged angels singing the hallelujah chorus while the gates of paradise opened; there were no grotesque demons awaiting to skewer me with pitchforks. The afterlife was simply blank—just an infinite expanse of absolute darkness and vast emptiness. I could imagine how it could be hell for some to spend eternity in the void; the silence can be terrifying. I, on the other hand, accepted it and even gave my new home a name: the quiet place.

* * *

Time was obsolete in the quiet place. To keep track of how many days have passed since the unforgettable moment I became roadkill wasn't as easy as looking at my wrist watch, especially since I no longer felt like I had eyes anymore (or limbs, for that matter). I was a floating, squiggly mass in oblivion, though some of my awareness was still intact. Sometimes, I could faintly hear muffled voices from a far away distance. I concluded that they must be the other "residents". It was nice. Their company made me feel safe.

* * *

All was well until something changed.

I couldn't breathe. I was resting when a building pressure that suffocated me came out of the blue. I was slowly being crushed. I knew the feeling too well. All around me, the walls were closing in. The more I struggled, the harder they pressed.

Was I dying again? Was I finally facing judgment? I did not know. I tried calling out to the others, but it sounded as if they were screaming too. For the first time in a long time, I was afraid. It hurt so much. I hated it. It felt like I was about to burst. Stop it. Stop it, please. _Stopitstopitstopitstopitstopit_.

And just when I thought the pain was too unbearable, I was free. However, the freedom was worse.

The harsh cold felt like pins and needles on my skin. I was blind and I couldn't move. Warm hands were grasping my body, yet they did not bring me any ease.

So I screamed and screamed and screamed.

* * *

"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Eaton. It's a girl!"


	2. Chapter 1 - Lucy

**1.) I do not condone what Mark Jefferson has done. I won't go into the specifics in the event that a reader may not be informed yet of the plot development in the recent episodes of Life Is Strange, but I only want to note that I will not make light of his actions.**

 **2.) This is not a story where the oc falls helplessly in love with her object of desire and becomes his sex kitten, ready to please and serve at his demand. I'd like to deviate from that format.**

 **3.) Life Is Strange is not my playground. I just frolic in it.**

 **Song: Sweater Weather by The Neighbourhood**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 1** :

 **11 Days Before The Storm - 2:25 PM**

If I were to write a complete biography of myself, I would sum it up into three parts: the first chapter would be about the seventeen long years I spent alive; the second one would be of death and how I became a car sandwich thanks to Mr. Tokyo Drift; and the final chapter, my personal favorite, would be about how I was reborn into a screeching infant named Lucy Eaton.

I know. It's a lot to swallow. Eighteen years have went by since then and grasping the facts has not been any easier for me. I was reincarnated—that much was certain. I had a new face, a new body, a new voice and a new life. How or why, I'm not sure. I've spent most of my childhood reading about reincarnation (behind my new parents' backs, of course, lest they send me to the loony bin) and I still have yet to find an answer. It doesn't feel as if it happened for a great purpose; I don't think Buddha or Jesus zapped me into a new meat-suit to stop Hitler Jr. No, it just feels like I'm an ordinary thirty-five-year-old in a teenager's body, going through high school and puberty all over again. Totally normal, except I still have memories of my past life.

Getting to live once more meant getting a second chance, and there were some perks that I took advantage of too much. For example, as I was walking down the hall, headed for my last class for the day, I was greeted with hi's and hello's from students I've barely spoken to. I was quite well-known. My parents—or Lucy's parents—had wonderful genes and had a bank account with several zeroes in it. When they popped me out of Philadelphia and shipped me off to Blackwell Academy, the story of my family spread like wildfire and the rest was history.

I've done a good job keeping the act of a rich millennial whose pastime is to leech mommy and daddy's money so far, considering that I wasn't rich or had a mommy in my previous life. However, it was no simple task. I had to limit myself from showing my true potential: I acted as though Algebra was the bane of my existence and buried my mathlete past to the ground; I talked the new hip-teen-speak and fought the unrelenting urge to cringe every time the word "hella" escaped my mouth; I pretended to be polite and friendly from a safe distance, memorized everyone's names and basic information, and filed them into categorical boxes in my brain to keep tabs of who's connected to who. All this so that I would not fall behind or excel. All this so that no one would notice I was... _different_.

There it was—Room 102. Art class. I stopped and took a deep breath before entering the room with a dazzling (practiced) smile people expected to see on me. It was mostly full already. There was Daniel the artist minding his own business, as usual, and Stella and Alyssa casually chatting near the window. Hayden was catching some Z's on his desk (unsurprising as the boy spent his every waking moment partying and toking). Taylor was too busy giggling at what Victoria was telling her, and Kate...Kate looked a little off today. While heading towards my seat at the back, I decided to greet her.

"Hey, Kate," I grinned at her. Out of the many girls in Blackwell, she was one of the very few that I genuinely liked. Kate Marsh was smart and sweet. More importantly, she had substance.

"Oh. Hey, Lucy," she smiled back, albeit her eyes were downcast.

"So, did you have trouble with the homework? I sure did. I couldn't find much about the photographer I chose on the internet. I had to go to the library and all. It was such a major drag cause the librarian doesn't really like me." A lie. The cranky librarian, Mrs. Courie, and I were in good terms and often swapped stories of the latest gossip in Arcadia Bay, but I wanted to break the ice with Kate by being relatable.

"Homework? What homework?" she asked, her eyebrows furrowed.

Huh. That was new. Kate was usually the first to finish her school-related assignments. "The essay about expressionist photography. You know, where we had to cite examples and stuff?"

"Oh. That. I forgot. Sorry, I haven't been feeling very well."

"You know what, don't sweat it. You can still submit tomorrow. Just hand it over to me. Plus, Mr. Jefferson grades our papers late anyway." Another lie. I have been our photography teacher's student assistant for nearly a month now and from what I've observed, he's admirably diligent with his work. He has never been late to appointments or deadlines and has always expected to be treated with the same seriousness, thus he's quick to notice if a student is falling behind. That didn't mean I couldn't sneak in Kate's paper, though.

"Thanks, Lucy," she smiled the same forced smile she gave to me a while ago. I muttered a quick "no problem" and moved away. Any bogus, self-proclaimed clairvoyant could tell that Kate's thoughts were busy.

As the bell rang, Max came rushing through the door just in the nick of time. Taylor whispered into Victoria's ear, and with the way the latter laughed and glanced at Max's rugged fashion, it was an obvious sign that they were making fun of her.

I realized that I could have defended Max. I could have said something witty to turn the tables around. The silent code of high school stated that given my status as a "cool kid", I had enough authority to go against the queen bee of Blackwell, aka Victoria Chase, and her minions, aka Taylor and Courtney. The problem was that Victoria was a firework; whenever, she did anything, she did it with a bang. If she got pissed, she'd post it all over her social medias. If she wanted to win, she'd step on anyone crossing her path. Going against her would instantly put me in the radar. It was too risky.

So I settled on vowing that I would make it up to Max somehow, some day.

Imagine an animal planet or national geographic show where a group of animals in heat zone in on the arrival of a prospective mate. Change 'animals' and 'mate' with 'girls' and 'Jefferson' respectively, and see what I have to deal with every photography class. Jefferson waltzed into the room same as he always did everyday—hair tousled, eyes sharp, collar unbuttoned and body relaxed—yet the minute my female peers saw his presence, they were hypnotized. I called this phenomenon the 'Schoolgirl effect': get a room filled with girls at the peak of adolescent development, add one mature male that perspires confidence and charisma, and boom watch the hormones fly.

"I know life has been exciting with your recent parties and all but I do hope you've at least done some reading," he said in that cocky tone we were familiar with. "Where did we stop yesterday?"

The proud lioness, Victoria, was quick to pounce. "The importance of emotion in photographs. Like, the blending of the individual feelings of the photographer and the subject."

"Yes, thank you, Victoria. The harmony or clash of the photographer and his subject is evident in a photo; it leaves an impression distinguishable for the common eye. Aside from that, what else do you think has an important role in the portrayal of emotion?" A pregnant pause followed. "Max?"

"Detail," said gingerly by the brunette. "Little details can affect the picture."

"Good," Jefferson gave her an approving nod. Point one for Mad Max. "In the butterfly effect, it explains that everything is interconnected—that the flapping of a butterfly's wings can cause the arrival of a storm. Likewise, in photography, the smallest details can give the biggest impact. Details are one of, if not _the_ , most crucial factor that often many overlook. Sad face. It gives character and personality. Without the details, the whole image, no matter how dramatic, would be lacking. Empty."

"That concept served as an inspiration for Jorgino Bisognin, a reclusive Italian photographer, to create his masterpiece called _La bellezza silenziosa_ which, in case none of you speak Italian, means _the_ _quiet_ _beauty_."

My phone vibrated in the pocket of my jacket. I discreetly brought out the device and checked my message inbox, only to see that the alert was from my brother. Yes, in my second life, I had a sibling—a _good_ older sibling. My brother was my advantage; Christopher was the golden child of the Eaton family and I used that to steer clear from the unforgiving spotlight of our parents. However, he was also the biggest adversary I had to endure as I was the object of his clingy nature.

 _ **Chris:** October baby, its ur bday month. Lez get high ;)_

I had to stop myself from sighing in exasperation. It wasn't that I hated him. I admit that I sometimes enjoyed his antics and appreciated his efforts of finding common ground with me, although I do admit as well that it would be easier if he did not fuss over me so much. Begrudgingly, I typed out my reply.

 _ **Lucy:** That's tomorrow and you know I don't like weed, stoner boner.  
 **Chris:** Boo, u suk._

 _ **Chris:** You've been there in Oregon with all the artsy kids for months now. You doing alright?_

It did not help either how his demeanor could do a complete one-eighty at an instant.

 _ **Lucy:** Yes, no worries. I have not joined any fanatical cults or flashed anyone with my goodies, but I am happy here.  
 **Lucy:** Can't talk yet. I'm in the middle of class. Later, okay?  
 **Chris:** Fine, fine, busy bee. Me and the folks just miss you hahaha._

If he was trying to make me feel guilty, then it worked a little bit.

 _ **Lucy:** Miss you too.  
 **Chris:** :"_

"While the flair can turn heads, it's the subtlety that leaves a message. Remember that."

I looked back up again and saw Jefferson staring directly at my eyes as he finished his sentence. This was no surprise. It was the art slash photography teacher's way of connecting to his audience—of making sure his message reached the young minds of Blackwell. Yet it unnerved me. Though his intentions were of that of a benevolent instructor, paranoia made its grand appearance; it uncoiled in my stomach and stretched its long tendrils to my limbs. Under his scrutiny, I felt exposed. If the eyes could see into a person's soul, then what would he see in mine?

The previous me would have definitely lowered her gaze in annoyance had she been faced in this situation. But Lucy version 2.0 was self-assured and cool as a cucumber, and did her best to never let anything daunt her even in special cases where her thoughts were not as composed as her appearance would suggest. So I stared right back at him, my grays meeting his browns. For an instant, I forgot myself. The room went still and the air had changed. His eyes were devoid of emotion until I saw a shadow of bemusement pass by them. After that, he looked away and I could breathe again.

This all happened in the span of a moment. I checked my watch and inwardly groaned. It was going to be a long, grueling day.


	3. Chapter 2 - Lucy

**The finale of Life Is Strange was a flipping roller coaster. I pretty much just hugged myself in the bathtub while the shower was running after that. It was flipping brilliant—brilliant in the sense that it tore my chest open, pulled out my beating heart and put it back in with no remorse. I'm still a mess and I'm obviously not over it. I've never been this emotionally invested in fictional characters before, and I've seen Game of Thrones.**

 **I'll never forget this masterpiece.**

 **Also, I received an anonymous review regarding Lucy's appearance. If you must know, I based her looks on Korean model and singer, Sooyoung (photo on my bio). Just picture her with gray eyes.**

 **Music: Little Heart by Amarante**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 2:**

 **11 Days Before The Storm – 4:00 PM**

Forty-five tedious minutes later and the Language of Photography class was over. Jefferson stated his last remarks while the rest began leaving their respective desks. Likewise, I fixed my things and stuffed them in my bag, yet made no move to head for the door. I often had to stay behind to help him out with his duties since I was his student slave. I didn't mind. Contrary to my master-plan of intentionally being mediocre in my classes, I still didn't want to turn down the prospect of earning extra credit. That, and it was also a valid excuse to pull the 'I'm-busy' card whenever people would invite me to "hang out" ( _hang out_ was usually a code that meant "to smoke pot in some dingy area").

The sun was setting early today. From where I sat, I saw the rays light up the room and frame it nicely with an orange tint. It was quite a sight to behold, and one that must have been seen by countless pairs of eyes plenty of times. Some may have even captured the scene already, like I was intending to. Taking shots of or during sunsets was what many considered to be the ultimate photographer's cliché. However, I understood—and I wasn't the only one who shared the sentiment—that despite its "overused" status, it still held its beauty. It was just my luck that I brought my camera on a whim.

 _Click._ It would go well to the collection.

"I'd ask you what you thought of the lecture but by the looks of it, you weren't paying attention," I heard Jefferson say, voice laced with both humor and seriousness, as he rifled through his documents. I had expected him to say that. Decades of working on lenses and imagery had turned the man into an astute observer, and no one was exempted from that—not even I, who practically lived and breathed discretion.

I stood up and approached, offering him a sheepish grin. "Sorry. It was my brother. Just wishing me a happy birthday."

To that, he was surprised. "It's your birthday today?"

"No, he's just hyped up about it. For the record, there _was_ something that you said that struck me." That part was true. There _was_ something that struck me, yet the necessity of me mentioning it came from my desire to get him off my back and not because I wanted to gush out my thoughts.

He looked up at me from his laptop and met my eyes, mood subtly lightened and work momentarily forgotten. Just as I had become familiar with his pattern, Jefferson was also aware of mine (or at least with the one I presented him). He knew what was to follow. In the modern realm of vast technological advancements, kids believed anything on the internet—ate it all up without hesitation. That laziness sedated them, thus the role of questioning Jefferson fell upon me; me, who originally came from a time where people could mistake the word _wifi_ for the latest trendy disco dance move. Not once did I ever think that I was the photography teacher's star pupil, although I suspected he enjoyed the discussions we had.

"What was it?" he inquired.

"Earlier, you mentioned that the contrast of details is evident in the play of light and shadow. You sounded as if you were heavily implying that it's the light that needed the shadow," I said.

Jefferson handed to me the bunch of papers he was holding. "The beauty needs the beast in order to...shine, for lack of a better word. I can tell that you're skeptic though, Lucy. Go on. I'm all ears. Tell me your thoughts."

"I think it's the other way around."

"How so?"

"Okay, it's true that shadow creates depth and gives more meaning to a subject. Light also does the same thing by making the image more dynamic and not flat, right? What I think makes it more favorable than the shadow is that the shadow only exists because there is light. Without light, shadow is just darkness; without beauty, the beast is just a monster. Like, um..." I lost my train of thought when the corners of his lips began turning upward. "Something like that, you know"

"Well, I can't argue with that," Jefferson chuckled. "You got me. I'm no Plato to your Aristotle. I don't want to spoil anything since I plan on discussing this further next Monday. The point remains that light and shadow are cohesive. They belong together."

 _They belong together_. Trust Jefferson to say something as poetic as that. If I had been an innocent-enough romanticist ala Alyssa or a pseudo-coy alpha female ala Victoria, and not a walking mid-slash-after-life crisis ala me, I would have replied with something equally lyrical, probably accompanied with a flirtatious flutter of lashes. Instead, I nodded silently, understanding his notions.

"Anyway, I hope you don't have a lot of homework to do later. I've accumulated quite a pile of papers we need to sort out thanks to the Everyday Heroes contest. Which reminds me...you haven't submitted anything yet." There was that playfully admonishing tone again in his voice.

"Oops?" _Shit_ was the more appropriate word for it. I hadn't passed an entry because I had no intentions of joining the contest to begin with. I was not passionate for it as much as the others were. What was the point of joining if I didn't even want to win?

Jefferson sighed. "It's bad enough that there are several of you who haven't submitted anything either."

"Deadline is still next week. We'll get around it," I lied.

It seemed he was going to reply but his phone rang. Jefferson took one good look on the caller id, and the mirth on his face died in an instant—became washed over by an unreadable, tight-lipped expression. It was chilling. Before I could catch a glimpse of who was calling him, he gave me a curt "excuse me, I have to take this" and stepped outside, leaving me to my own devices.

What the hell was that about?

* * *

Once upon a time, a girl named Rachel Amber became the alleged prized student of Mark Jefferson, and that lead to the birth of a nasty rumor.

There were many versions to that story, though the general gossip was that they, to put it bluntly, _fucked_. I wasn't sure whether it was the truth or another unoriginal lie invented by Jefferson's crafty fans. The opportunity to fact-check properly had yet to arrive within my reach for the following reasons: A.) I never knew her, never even saw her except recently in her posters scattered around in the campus, B.) it wasn't like I could just walk up to anyone and casually say "oh hey is it true that Mr. J banged one of his students", and C.) I'd be nosy and probably-definitely insensitive to prod around the matter considering that the aforementioned girl was missing—has been missing for nearly six months now.

I was aware of the fact that there was a possibility I could head down the Rachel Amber path. There were a few rumors concerning him and I circulating Blackwell already. With the amount of exposure I had with Jefferson, that was hardly surprising. Tongues waggled beyond my control. What I did have power over was its rate of escalation. To not add fuel to the fire, I made a conscious effort to strictly follow a set of rules I implemented on myself.

Rule number one was to not stay behind with him later than six in the evening.

The clock in the room read 5:42 PM.

When Jefferson came back from his phone call, I saw how he concealed his agitation. Upon his entry, he was quick to smoothly apologize for his sudden exit and quick to joke that he was being overworked. It was very convincing. Everything felt normal. Laid-back. Relaxed. No one would think anything was wrong, except I was a liar too. The tiny details, the details many overlook, were hidden in plain sight. Even though he moved and functioned with the same self-assured fluidity he had, his shoulders were rigid and squared—tense. He was in his element surrounded by photographs and cameras, yet he did not seem at peace at all. Instead, his eyes remained alert—restless.

Whatever he heard from that phone call, it must not have been good news.

 _It's none of my business it's none of my business it's none of my business_. I kept repeating the mantra in my head as the rhythmic _click-tick_ sound the stapler emitted ended. My work was done. I checked the different piles to make sure everything was organized before grabbing my bag that was more expensive than I cared to admit. Jefferson was still where he was, clicking and typing away at his laptop on the secluded teacher's table. He stared at me expectantly when I neared him.

"Alright, all finished here. These are last week's photo analysis assignments—" I placed paper pile number one on the wooden surface "—last week's documentary reflections—" paper pile number two "—and this week's Expressionism essays—" paper pile number three.

"Ah, yes. Thank you, Lucy. You're a big help," he said.

"It's cool. No problem. Although..."

"Although?"

"I already gave my expressionism essay but it's not in the pile," I said.

"Of course it's not. It's with me. I wanted to talk to you about it." There was a brief pause as he brought out my missing paper and stood up from his seat to face me.

My brows furrowed. "Oh, okay. Is something wrong?"

Jefferson sent a reassuring smile at my direction. " _'Expressionism is to reenact the emotional experience in its most intense and concentrated formulation, to paint not the reality of something but instead its interior perception'_. I have to say: I found that line incredibly... _beautiful_. I mean, the way you described it was outstanding."

For once, I allowed my mouth to open without thinking. "Why do I get the feeling you didn't want to talk to me just to stroke my ego?"

"Sharp as always. It's your performance in my class. Now, how is it that you can write something as brilliant as that, and not be able to enter excellency?"

"Pardon?" What was he getting at?

"You don't recite during lectures, your quizzes are consistently average, you haven't submitted a photo for the contest...what's going on? It's like you're holding yourself back."

"Mr. Jefferson, I was not expecting to have this conversation at all. I don't know how to answer that question." I had no explanation ready because it was hard to know who to blame more: me for my recklessness or Jefferson for his attentiveness. The night I wrote that specific essay, I had felt awfully inspired, so I sat down, _cautiously_ poured out on that paper my pent up creativity and intellect, and justified it by telling myself _I deserve_ _this_. Funny how snap decisions come back to ultimately bite people in their asses.

"Lucy, I've been your teacher for nearly a month now. I've had my eye on each and every one of you, and I can honestly say you're one of the most promising ones here in Blackwell. This paper—" he held the blasted essay up "—is further proof of that. I'm a little disappointed you're not thriving as I expected you to be. I know the last thing you need to hear is some old dude invade your space and lecture you about your studies, but I simply want to hone that potential of yours," he smiled and lightly touched my arm, his fingers and my skin separated by the thin cotton cloth of my hoodie. When he let go, a tiny voice in my mind asked me a question: _was that appropriate?_

I had the advantage and burden of steering our conversation, and it all relied on my next response. I thought of two choices, and the two separate scenarios that could happen from each: I could either dance around the matter, delaying my leave and potentially pissing Jefferson off, or I could be predictable.

I glanced at the clock again. Ten minutes left 'til six.

Option two, it was.

"I'm sorry I'm not meeting your expectations. I guess I'm just way too carefree. I've never really enjoyed stressing myself too much."

"Don't think of it as pressuring yourself. Think of it as embracing your maximum level. Your youth is all the more reason to spread your wings and shit," he laughed. "Sorry, I got carried away." For what it was worth, Jefferson was talented in scolding and encouraging at the same time.

"How would I even begin to do those things?" I asked in the manner Jefferson presumably anticipated me to: small and mousy. It was the voice of the fragile, unsure girl I incorporated within my new identity—a layer behind the devil-may-care teen facade I used, and a layer beyond the middle-aged road pancake I really was.

He took the bait. "I think you merely need the right push. Someone to motivate you—an inspiration."

"Well, this has been a welcoming wake up call. Yeah, I'll do it. I'll try harder," I said.

"Yes, that's what I wanted to hear," he beamed, so eager and so pleased that I almost felt ashamed. "You can start by entering the contest. I know you won't let me down."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Jefferson."

"Be seeing you, Lucy."

* * *

 **Many thanks to the people who reviewed and followed my story. You people motivate me to keep going. This chapter was supposed to be in chapter one, but I chose to split it because I didn't want it to be too wordy—or is that something you guys don't mind? Would you prefer to have really, really long chapters? Let me know what you think.**


	4. Chapter 3 - Lucy

**Hello! This took some time to finish because I've been feeling unwell lately, but here it is! Next chapter is already halfway done, so expect a sooner update. Thank you so much for all the lovely feedback you have given me. I'm giving you all virtual sloth hugs.**

 **Music: Anna by Arcade Fire**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 3:**

 **10 Days Before The Storm – 6:00 AM**

The world was black, and then I was alive again.

At exactly six in the morning, my eyes fluttered open. Yes, _fluttered_ was the right term for it. The awakening was gentle—a light blink towards consciousness, induced partly by the soft noises from outside and partly by my own body clock. There was nothing new to it. I had always been a girl (woman?) of precise and early risings despite never having a fondness for mornings. These particular traits of mine were what I considered to be both treasures and baggage; valuable and burdening. They were remnants of the old me that not even the afterlife could get rid of.

I wallowed in my bed, which was one of the many white furnishings I had in my dorm. Lucy's room was a minimalistic Eden adorned with modern furniture and flora/fauna accents I cherry-picked myself. It was a dollhouse designed to mimic the internal machinations of my teenage persona: my wealth was an unnecessarily big flat screen TV, my vanity was a tabled mirror filled with beauty products, and my laziness was a cluttered study desk. Of course, not all of it were lies. Some of it were genuine, like the happy Eaton family photo that sat on my nightstand, where my phone also was.

The strongest drug of the twenty-first century came not in a pill but in the form of a little touch-screen electronic box. With its multiple purposes such as playing music and taking pictures, phones were the Swiss army knives of society. They were portable and easy to use, thus making them convenient. So convenient, in fact, that they had a tendency to become addictive. Juliet Watson, a girl in my Science Lab class and also a reporter for the school newspaper, was a living testament to this affliction.

 _1 New Message_ , it read on my phone. I tapped the tiny twitching green icon of the inbox, having an assumption already that the notification came from Chris as he often updated me with details of his and our parents' lives every now and then. To my surprise, it was from Jefferson.

 _ **Mr. Jefferson:** In case you're wondering, I gave you an A for the essay. Remember what we talked about. I have faith in you._

The text was sent at 11:48 PM last night, just two hours after I put myself to sleep. I stared at the screen and read the sentences over and over. In my throat was a lump I wanted to ignore and the more I processed the black pixels of his words, the harder it was to swallow.

Jefferson and I exchanged numbers when I first began helping him out for the sole purpose of him informing me my assigned tasks, and for a while that was how it worked. My phone history had proof of that; our previous text conversations consisted of two-liners: him, the initiator, beginning with _'Lucy, could you...'_ or _'Would you kindly...'_ , and me, the finisher, ending with _'Sure...'_ or _'Will do, Mr. Jefferson...'_. Last night at 11:48 PM was the first time he delivered me anything deviating from that format—the first time he texted me something so _casual_ and so _friendly_.

I didn't like it.

It was rather harsh the way I deleted his message without second thought, I admit. I could imagine the tut-tutters collectively chastising me: _Why are you so cold? Mr. Jefferson was just being nice!_ It was nothing personal. The text did leave a bitter aftertaste in my mouth and it did made me question whether or not it was appropriate; however, what weighed heavier in my mind was my meticulous list of rules. I had to follow the gossip-free-Lucy protocol. In the event that someone were to snoop around in my life, I didn't want to give them the impression that my forty-six-year-old _male_ teacher and I were chummy together.

I had the option of spending the rest of my morning in bed, justifying myself and appeasing an invisible audience, yet today was not a day for brooding. Today was a day for doing. Outside, I heard a sound that was rare to find in a dorm building packed with adolescents: silence. I walked into the hallway—my pretentiously quoted white-board slate behind me—and saw that it was blank. No student in sight (teenagers were surprisingly nocturnal creatures). I reveled in the peaceful quiet, though my bliss was short-lived once I reached the door that lead to the showers. On the other side of it were faint voices conversing. It seemed I wasn't the only one awake at this hour. I sighed and prepared my work-smile. _Showtime..._

The voices conversing were actually Juliet (speak of the former devil) and Dana. I felt the coil in my stomach relax. The two girls were pleasant company—a bit high-strung sometimes, but they were okay in my book. I moved to occupy the last sink available, the one nearest to the door, which was next to Dana where she was brushing her teeth. "Ladies, good morning."

"Morning," Juliet chimed as she fixed herself in front of the mirror. Dana, still dressed in her pajamas, cheerfully waved at me.

"You guys are up early," I said.

Juliet rolled her eyes like I had just uttered the stupidest garble she's ever heard. "Not willingly. Deadline for the paper is supposed to be today, and one of the writers couldn't finish her editorial because she got chicken pox or something. Now she's making _me_ finish her damn article."

"Ouch. I guess that's what happens when you're too good at what you do." The joke was meant to coax her out of her grouchy mood. An angry Juliet was an insufferable Juliet, and it was too soon for my taste to be dealing with such negativity.

She looked at the tiled wall beside her and checked if it was adequately clean, then leaned on it and smirked. "If she wanted to kiss my ass, she could have just asked. I don't mind a little experimentation."

I laughed. "And you, Dana? What brings you to the early birds club?"

"I've got this emergency cheer meeting for the big game next week," she said while patting herself dry after gargling and spitting out water. "Which, of course, I expect you to attend this time, Lucy."

"Yeah, you should have seen how Patrick scored the winning goal. It was epic," Juliet concurred.

About a month ago, the Bigfoots had a match with one of our neighboring rivals, the Growlers. I never had an affinity for football (or sports, for that matter) so it came as a relief when I found out that the event coincided with my father, Lance's, birthday. The Eatons were disciplined traditionalists; their family-oriented nature conditioned them to be adamant throwers of celebratory nameday dinners for kins, and last September had been no different. With the wonders of technology, I was able to attend... _virtually_. Rather than being surrounded by adrenaline-rushed teens and shouting my non-existent school spirit, I spent that night being holed up in my room on Skype and fake dining on lobster. From what I gathered, the game was a swift victory on our part.

"I know, I'm sorry. I'll try going." The smile I plastered on my face at that moment hid my internal conflict of _do I go or do I not go_. "I wouldn't want to miss the sight of Dana shaking her booty and jocks wrestling jocks to the ground." Both girls grinned in return.

"Speaking of jocks, have you heard the news?" Juliet's tone suddenly held a teasing quality. Hours after our initial encounter, I immediately discovered that it was a mannerism of hers; whenever she discovered a new scoop and wanted to share it (dangle it above everybody's oblivious, eager heads), her voice lilted. It was quite akin to a little girl speaking in her sing-song voice: _I know something you don't_.

"Here we go," Dana muttered under her breath. I stared at them curiously, mildly intrigued.

"Zachary and Victoria have broken up."

My eyebrows shot up. What surprised me was _not_ the break up. That was hardly breaking news: three days prior, Victoria updated her Facebook page with a shitpost concerning a vaguely described guy in her life. It wasn't hard to put two and two together since her description contained enough specifics to be able to pinpoint who she was referring to. No, what surprised me was Juliet's apparent interest in Zachary. "Oh my god, what happened?"

Dana shrugged. "She dumped him. Reasons unknown."

"Who cares? The point is Zach is on the market again."

"Juliet, I love you, but Zach? _Really_?" Zachary was not exactly the resident dreamboat and everyone knew that.

"Yeah, I didn't even know you liked brawny. I thought you were into the literary type," I said.

Juliet scoffed and crossed her arms. "Please, I'm surrounded by enough of those at the _Totem_. Those guys cannot handle a real woman. Besides, what's the problem? Zach is hot _and_ he's a quarterback."

"He's also a big bully. I won't stop you from doing what makes you happy. Just try to take it easy, okay?" said Dana as she touched her best friend's shoulder.

"Geeze, fine, I will. I'll take it slow, mom. Though I can't do anything if Zach wants a piece of me. I have to go now. Catch ya later."

"Bye." We watched Juliet practically skip to the door, her pretty peach skirt swaying at her every elated step. There was no doubt that she was ecstatic at the prospect of a new man candy, and no certainty that she would heed the cheerleader's words. I wanted to pinch the bridge of my nose. I already felt the onset of a headache (Juliet had that effect on me) and it wasn't even noon yet. Understanding someone as predictably unpredictable and impulsive as her was tricky.

Once she made her exit, Dana opened her mouth again: "Knowing Juliet, she'd probably pounce before Zach could finish saying 'hi'."

I hummed in agreement. "Well, you're right about that. I think it's Zach we ought to worry for."

"Victoria's not going to be happy when she sees her ex boy toy and Juliet together."

"I foresee a disaster in the near future," I said. Color me impressed. That was the third time in a row Dana echoed my thoughts. I glanced at her from my peripheral and saw her staring down her sink, her face pensive. It unsettled me. I was used to seeing her happy default.

"You okay, Dana? You kinda spaced out there for a sec," I asked.

She turned to me, eyes alert. "Huh? No, it's nothing."

"You sure?"

"I'm alright. Still a bit sleepy, I guess."

I wasn't an idiot. I was aware of what was eating her up inside.

While Victoria and Juliet enjoyed pretending they were the Perez Hiltons of the campus, there were individuals in Blackwell that I called _'birds'_. Little, unseen birds who could see everything in their surroundings. Those, I made a point of befriending. That was how I extracted information on people. Most of the rumors the birds told me were lies— _"from simplistic childish fibs to elaborate Rube Goldbergian contraptions"_. Only a handful of it were remotely legit, and that was if I filtered the exaggerated details. Albeit this system of mine had its own complications (with the biggest being that facts get horribly mixed-up after being passed from ear to ear), there were some truths to it.

" _A very good source of mine told me that Dana got knocked up. And get this: Logan is the baby daddy."_

"Hey, Lucy," Dana began.

"Hm?"

"I won't be here tomorrow. I've got this thing I need to take care of. Do you mind taking notes for me for World History? I know it's short notice—"

I raised a hand to stop her. "No, no, it's okay. I'll do it." Of all the things I allowed myself to be, a cunt was not one of them. I had long admitted to myself that I was not a good person. I developed a knack of gathering potentially harmful intel on people because I _hated_ not knowing; hated it to the highest degree that I was willing to go as far as ignore the norms of privacy. The only redeeming quality I had to counteract this fault of mine was that I surprisingly stayed sane despite the obvious power I had. I used the knowledge I gained to maneuver to an easier path, but never to blackmail those around me. Their secrets became my secrets.

"Thanks!" Dana's relief was clearly evident. It made her features sparkle back to life. "So are you going to the party this Friday? The Vortex club plans on going all out. Spoiler alert: they're hiring this new DJ to play sick beats to dance to."

My answer was already a definite _no_ , yet I paused and actually considered her offer. "Mmm, I don't know. I've heard that shit gets crazy in those parties."

"Tell me about it. I still can't get the image of Ros and Liz in a drunk make-out sesh," she said.

"That was true?"

"Yes, and forever burned in my memory, though not as much as Hayden's. He was in-between them, hoping to get in on the action."

I snorted. "And did they let him?"

"Nope. Totally ignored him. I guess it was for the best cause I think Ros and Liz are dating now."

It was about time too. I once had the unfortunate luck of being grouped with them during gym class, and it was almost painful how third-wheel I was. The sexual tension between them was so palpable that if the three of us had participated in a threesome that day, it would've ended up being just a twosome plus little old me sitting in the corner. "Aww, ain't that nice. Good for them. All they needed was the right push. And by 'push', I mean a tongue tango."

"But seriously, you should come. I could fix you up, lend you one of my sexier dresses and boom! Blackwell won't know what hit em when they see you."

"That sounds promising." I found it pleasantly surprising and also a bit alarming that I actually felt tempted to go.

"Trust me. When I'm done with you, the boys will grovel at your feet...not that they aren't grovelling now."

"Oh come on, Dana. You know I only have eyes for you."

To that, she laughed. "Lucy, don't tease! So is that a yes or no?"

 _Do I go or do I not go?_

"Alright, alright, I'm convinced. No need for the puppy dog eyes. I'll go," I said, which wasn't a move that inspired confidence, yet it came out anyway. A part of me (the miniscule part that desired to shed my facades and demanded to have fun) got moved by Dana's enthusiasm. My brain sometimes functioned too fast for my own good.

"Yay! Oh my god, this is gonna be so much fun." I stiffened as Dana went for a swift hug. "Crap, I have to go. But we'll text, okay? See ya," she waved at me again, then she was gone too.

The steam emanating from the showers had long blurred my mirror. I wiped it with my bare hand and met the cloudy face of my reflection. No time for brooding, indeed.


End file.
